The Tie
by BlaineWarbler
Summary: Blaine and his father don't know how to deal with each other, so Blaine takes a trip to see the Hudson-Hummels on Father's Day. (Season 4 AU; more like a K rating but erring on caution's side.)


Blaine pulls into the driveway and idles for a moment before turning off the engine. His hands return to the wheel as if bracing himself for something he is not prepared for.

_It's nothing. It's nothing._

That's what he thinks, at least. What he's making himself believe. Because it's not nothing.

It's everything, really.

The way his father had nodded kindly and accepted the boxed tie Blaine and his mother had picked out together. The way his father's eyes had lingered on Blaine for a moment, as if he was trying to reconcile something in his mind—remember something. Force a realization.

But nothing had come. A simple "Thank you, Blaine," and a hug that even the word 'awkward' couldn't touch.

_I want to love you but I don't know how. Tell me what to say._

This thought was genuine, and unbeknownst to each Anderson, it was a thought shared between the two men—one older, middle-aged, the other barely eighteen.

.

.

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As he sits in the Hudson-Hummel's driveway, Blaine thinks about leaving. Backing up, turning around, driving away. A coward's move.

But the idea of disappointing Burt Hummel weighs heavily on his mind. He had already disappointed his own father, in a way.

And time would tell if Burt will come to mean something more to Blaine than just his boyfriend's father. But for now, his appearance at the other man's door on this Hallmark holiday is just a gesture of friendliness and gratitude. And nothing more.

_It's nothing. It's not a big deal—_the voice in his head sounds convincing enough.

It's Carole who opens the door and smiles briefly before engulfing him in a hug. She brings him inside and they start talking idly. Blaine hasn't been by since Kurt was home last winter. He had promised and promised Burt that he would stop by, that he wouldn't remain a stranger.

Even though Blaine is still trying to figure out his place in what he imagines to be his surrogate family, he has stayed away, puzzling out his feelings from a calculated distance.

But he is here now, and that counted for something—right? Kurt isn't even back yet—he had a month long internship in New York directly after term ended, and can't catch a flight back until the next week.

Blaine's guilt from staying away for so long coupled with his anxiety of having to all too soon explain his actions—this gross neglect—when Kurt comes home finally allow Blaine no other course of action other than to just suck it up.

Finn has come into the room, looking like he's fresh (or not-so-fresh) from the shop, in dirty coveralls and grease stains, a dark mark pulled over the bridge of his nose that Carole attacks with a fierce motherly aggression.

Burt stumbles out next and smiles at the surprise—he hadn't exactly told the Hudson-Hummels he was stopping by. "Hey kiddo," Burt says, altogether too softly, like Blaine's some bewildered woodland creature that would get spooked and run off if he made any sudden or harsh gestures.

"Hi, Burt," Blaine says with his controlled mask—a winning smile perfected by years of practice in front of the mirror. His father is a full-time politician, after all. Looking good for the camera is a must. "I just wanted to stop by and say hello, say happy Father's Day."

"Why, _thank you_, Blaine. That's _very_ kind of you," Burt says with a genuine smile, but his voice registers in an almost mocking tone, though it's not intended. And it's not Burt's natural inclination to mock. But he wants to parody that gentlemanly vibe he gets so often from Blaine—maybe it would help the boy relax a bit around him. Maybe that's why he stays away. With Kurt around, there's at least a barrier between the cultured and the uncouth in the Hudson-Hummel house. Blaine can feel comfortable when Kurt's here. But the balance is skewed with him gone—Burt can see that. He can feel it too. "But why don't you come and have something to eat? We just called the pizza guy. He'll be here in ten. You like pepperoni?"

"Sure. I mean—if it's not going to be any bother."

Burt smiles, happy that Blaine for once isn't putting up much of a fight. His defenses are down today. Burt wonders why the boy isn't with his family tonight, but he doesn't press. "Absolutely not. We were all hoping you'd show up."

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"Mom, are we doing anything tonight?" Blaine asked his mother. "I thought about stopping by the Hudson-Hummels to give Burt something."

"That's very sweet of you, Blaine. No, I don't think we're doing anything in particular. Your father and I were going to go out to dinner."

"_Oh_," Blaine says, not fully able to keep out the shock in his voice. He didn't think they had big plans for such a small holiday, but having plans that didn't involve Blaine? _A slap to the face_, he thought bitterly, _might have been more subtle_.

But maybe he was over-reacting.

His mother's brows knitted in confusion. "I'm sorry, dear. Do you want to come with us? It's an open invitation. I just thought you'd have other plans, instead of hanging out with your silly old parents."

_I'm leaving in two months and no one seems to care_.

He smiled again, almost laughing, his face a mask of perfect calm. "You're right. It would be great to see Finn, and I hardly ever get to hang out with Sam outside of glee club. You two have fun."

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There is hardly enough pizza to share between three hungry teenage boys, but they make do. Finn is an indiscriminate eater, shoving slice after slice down his throat without any real thought process other than _more, yes. _Blaine lets him take and take—Finn's eating habits are way too amusing.

Sam stares at his desired slice with as much longing as a person usually has while thinking about their far-away lover. It's like heartbreak every time he sees Finn take his slice, or when he offers it to Burt because—today of all days—he feels indebted to this man. Blaine can understand that all too well.

After dinner, Blaine hands Burt a card. "What's this?" Burt says.

"It's nothing," Blaine says offhandedly, a shy smile on his face.

"It's _not_ nothing to me," Burt says sternly but affectionately, with a warmth that reaches down into the boy and claws at some bit of him that existed so long ago he is surprised to find it has not yet dissolved into fable and myth.

Burt takes his time reading the card, nodding his head along with the sentiments expressed in both Hallmarkian poetry and Blaine's soft prose, shoved just underneath, longer than the printed text.

"Come here," Burt says, dragging each word, resigning himself happily to the inevitable.

And Blaine doesn't want to, he can't, but when Burt pulls him in close for a long, lasting embrace, Blaine feels like just breaking down at his shoulder and sobbing.

Instead it's just his face that breaks for a moment, but, turned away from Burt, no one can see the look of abject pain cross his face. His mouth falls and his eyes widen and his chest makes a funny little motion—irregular. Just for a moment. And yet, too right.

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"You're not wearing it," he said stupidly, immediately regretting his words.

"What?" his father asked, confused, turning away from his mirror to his son at the door, passing by.

Mr. Anderson drew in a breath and looked down at the piece of apparel he was stringing across the top of his button-down—a beautiful dark blue silk tie, his favorite. His older son, Cooper, had given it to him last Christmas. Blaine knew this.

Blaine nibbled at the inside of his mouth, as if the action would stop him from saying anything else that would implicate him. Implicate him for what, he didn't know.

The crime of caring, maybe.

His father had smiled perhaps a bit too brightly, holding open his arms to each side. "Do I look okay?" He was waiting for Blaine to laugh good-naturedly, to leave his genuine-sounding compliment and approval at the door before passing on to his next destination. Mr. Anderson didn't know where that would be—maybe to his friend's house, or to the mall, or wherever. Blaine always looked out for and entertained himself, and was good at it.

But Blaine did not laugh, did not offer his approval, did not leave.

"Cooper gave that to you last year," he said. Nothing in his tone gave any indication of being distressed about the fact.

"Yeah," Mr. Anderson agreed. "Is there something wrong?"

Blaine huffed once and shook his head slowly, disbelieving, his eyes falling away and off to the side of the room as if to ask the shadows lingering in the half-light _can you believe this guy?_ and hunching his shoulders, throwing up his hands and shrugging.

"_What?_" the older man said, now an edge to his voice. He closed his eyes. "Blaine, I'm in no mood for your hysterics. What is it?"

"It's Father's Day!" the boy said, his voice not loud but certainly close to a strangled cry. Blaine was swallowing the lump in his throat, trying to keep his eyes on his father and his voice even, but not succeeding in either. His eyes started to fall toward the floor. "I just gave you a tie two _hours_ ago. What are you trying to tell me?"

"_This_ is a piece of clothing, Blaine. It doesn't _mean_ anything. It matched my shirt. There's no hidden message here."

But when Blaine looked up to meet his father's eyes, Mr. Anderson looked just past him out the door. "I think you need to go and calm down, Blaine. I don't like this attitude."

Blaine almost laughed. "Fine," he said, and left.

.

.

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Blaine never really enjoyed Monopoly. Kurt had never really liked to play it, either. Not when they could be watching junk tv and eating cheesy paninis and organic grapes off the fine china, pretending all at once to be rich heirs whose snobbery was only superseded with their love of low-culture entertainment.

But now, Blaine is playing a new game. He's pretending that _this_ is his family.

"I don't think I'm counting this right…" Finn says, scratching his head. Sam offers a sympathetic smile, takes one of the multicolored bills from his hand. "Thanks, man."

"No, don't—I can't afford _that_," Burt exclaims.

Carole laughs throughout, occasionally ribbing the boys to rub in her own success.

The game seems to go on forever, but Blaine doesn't seem to mind.

When it's over, Sam departs. He's got a date with Mercedes, who just got back into town. Finn looks like he really wants to excuse himself to enjoy some video game or bang out something on his drums, but he's too weirded out by this new situation to leave. He thinks: is Blaine _his_ guest, or Burt and Carole's? The responsibility to entertain him would rest in the answer.

To spare him, Blaine smiles and says, "That was great. I should be getting back."

Finn grins back at him and claps his hand on Blaine's shoulder. "It was good to see you man," and heads off.

"You don't have to go, Blaine," Burt says. "When Kurt's not around, I'm more than happy to let you sleep over."

"Kurt and Blaine are _adults_ now, honey," Carole said reprovingly, poking Burt in the side. "You can't keep them separated. They're separated enough as it is, poor things."

"…Still my house…" Burt mumbles, but then shakes the thought from his head. "You're right, she's right. Even when he's here, you're still welcome. Anytime."

"Thanks, but…I really should be getting back."

"Of course, hun. You probably at least want to say goodnight to your dad," Carole said.

"With you leavin' soon and everything, he probably wants to spend all the time he can with ya," Burt added. "You sure he was okay with you coming over here tonight?"

Blaine nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! Absolutely. He and my mom went out anyway, to dinner." _We exchanged the obligatory pleasantries earlier in the day._

Burt seemed to read the boy's mind, his expression now pensive, thoughtful.

But Blaine managed to remove himself from the Hudson-Hummel home with no more questioning. Immediately when he closed the door to his car he fought the urge to cry.

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Driving the forty-five minutes back to Westerville is worth it. And he was used to the trek by now. But now that school had let out, it was almost silly to travel so much just for a small outing with Tina, whom he had grown close to over the past year, or any of the other glee clubbers.

But tonight had been worth it.

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.

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He pulls up to his house and hears his phone buzz. At first, he thinks it could be Kurt, although he's always busy until 10pm every night with work. Especially now that he's in his last days at the internship, it wasn't likely he'd be calling before then.

"_Proud of you, kiddo_," the text reads.

It's from Burt Hummel, so says his phone. Blaine covers his mouth as he reads the words over and over and over, until he realizes he _is_ crying, and that he can't seem to stop.

It shouldn't be this way. He shouldn't have to need this validation so badly. Blaine is strong and cheerful and always tries—God, he tries _so damn hard_—not to let things get him down.

_Thanks, Burt_, he replies back as quickly as he can.

By the time Blaine manages to collect himself, steady his breathing and walk to the front door, there is another text.

_We love you._

It's everything he wants, everything he needs. And he knows now this family will always be in his life. _Kurt_ will always be in his life—he is sure of that much. But he wants to make a conscious effort to include Burt and Carole and Finn—_especially _Burt.

But it's still not enough. It's not nearly enough.

Because the man who should be saying this, can't.

_It's nothing_, Blaine tries to say. _You don't need him._

How he wishes it were true.

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When Blaine opens the door, he is struck dumb by the image he sees.

His father is sitting in the leather recliner in view of the main foyer, staring at the door expectantly. He has a bottle of beer on the table beside him, but it's unopened. He is wearing what he was wearing earlier, and has not changed out of them. Except…one piece of his outfit has changed. The tie that's around his neck is no longer his brother's tie, but a bright, silken red-orange one.

He looks _miserable_.

There is a long moment of uncomfortable silence. Neither knows exactly what to say.

"It's not really your color." Blaine says, a very slight smile trying to make itself known.

His father smiles back tiredly. "No, it's not."

"It looks terrible, actually," Blaine says, considering.

His father shrugs. "Maybe with a different shirt."

"Maybe," Blaine responds.

His father looks down. "Reminds me of the time your mother crocheted you that sweater. She was so proud of it, and so happy when you wore it to school. She set it out for you every couple of weeks…" he looks up at his son, whose mouth is slightly parted as if ready to ask a question, but he remains silent. "You were always so happy when you came home. You told her you got compliments on it. You looked at me…and you looked at me and told me with your eyes—_don't say it_. Because when the kids started to pick on you about it, you made sure those teachers called my office instead of your mom."

Blaine just stands there, unsure of what to do or say but knowing he probably should do or say _something_, anything—"Dad…" he just says, but it comes out as a strained whisper.

"We never talked about it. We pretended like it didn't happen." His father's eyes begin to well up as the man looks off to the side to hide his expression. He is mad. He is _livid_. He hates himself for it.

"That was…a very," Blaine pauses, his mouth feels incredibly dry, "very long time ago."

"No, it wasn't," his father argues. "And it was just two _fucking_ years before those bastards put you in intensive care and Blaine, I didn't know—I _still_ don't know—"

Mr. Anderson cuts himself off, just shaking his head. Blaine is biting the inside of his mouth again, his eyes raw and wet and heavy.

After another span of time in which neither says anything, Blaine clears his throat. "But really, it's an ugly tie."

"I'm still going to wear it. To work tomorrow."

"It doesn't go with anything you own," Blaine says quickly, but his mouth is now turned upwards and he finds himself smiling, grinning, _beaming_ for the first time all day, even through the tears that have now freely sprung loose. And it isn't a show. It isn't a brave front. It is honesty and truth and everything that shouldn't ever need to hide.

"Well, love doesn't need to match," his father says.

It's silly, and perhaps a little stupid—these words. But Blaine takes them anyway. He takes them with him when he hugs his father, and they stand together for several minutes embracing, not at all awkward. He takes them with him when he walks up to his room, practically jogging in his excitement, and flops down on the bed to text Kurt what's happened.

And he takes them with him next fall, adding to it the words "I'm so proud of you," when he enrolls at Cornell and his father sees him off at his dorm.

And he takes them with him when he graduates cum laude, and adds "You're a very good man, Blaine," to the list.

And he takes them with him to his wedding, where the words really ring with truth: love _doesn't_ need to match, given their assortment of guests: the wild fashions of Kurt's art-school friends, the down-home Ohioans and Burt's friends, the slick-suited Anderson extended family, the hodge-podge of New Directions members, old and new.

And the words start to sing in Blaine's chest as his father raises his glass to toast the newlyweds, the first words high and clear and forever sounding off into the deep recesses of his heart: "I love you, son. I always have. I always will."

He wears a bright, red-orange tie.


End file.
